


Passionate, Unironic

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Intercrural Sex, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Can’t say I’m much for this shagging business.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passionate, Unironic

A/N: The first half of this fic is a fill for a [prompt on the kinkmeme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4777.html?thread=14966953#t14966953). Click on the link to read the prompt; it’s one of those dialogue-bomb prompts, so reading it will spoil you a little for the fic. The second half of this fic is a fill for [another prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/11848.html?thread=58168648#t58168648) on the kinkmeme: “Sherlock and John realise that they enjoy intercrural sex just as much as penetration.” (Click the link to read the entire prompt.)  
 

   
   
   
The fatal wound was a stab-slash across the throat, transecting the left carotid artery and slicing the epiglottis as it travelled to the right side of the victim’s body. Certainly not an obscure technique, but nor was it the default. Some preferred multiple stabs to the trunk, and possibly down to the genital area, depending on how sexually dysfunctional the killer was.  
   
The binding method was also somewhat distinctive: the victim had been hog-tied with an electrical cord, in this case from a hair dryer. Lestrade had seen this, accompanied by the stab-slash wound, three times before. Sherlock had not. This was the first time his presence had been requested.  
   
“We only need help with one thing,” Lestrade said. “The type of wound and the method of binding have been reported in the press as two signatures of the Brixton Intruder. But there are other important details we’ve kept out of the papers, details that point singularly to the Intruder. We’ve not found those latter details at this scene, so we can’t know for certain if this is him, or a copycat killer.”  
   
The bedroom had been ransacked, every drawer pulled out and overturned, the closet gutted. But Sherlock could see that prior to the break-in, the victim must have kept a very tidy home: there was no dust on the tops of the picture frames.  
   
“What sort of singular details?” Sherlock said, watching with disapproval as Detective Sergeant Tyler rummaged about. When he caught Tyler’s eye, Tyler silently made it clear that the feeling was mutual.  
   
“At all three of the previous scenes, a footprint was found, in the house or just outside in the garden.  Globe trainer, size eleven. We’ve been in touch with Globe about the pattern of the print, and it turns out it was a limited edition; only one pair of that particular model was sold in London in a size eleven. The killer’s shoes are essentially one of a kind. We’ve kept a lid on it because if it went public, all our man would have to do is drop the shoes off Vauxhall Bridge, and we’ve lost our strongest connection between the murders.”  
   
John unfolded himself from his crouching position over the victim’s cold body. “But you haven’t found the print here?”  
   
“Yet,” Sherlock finished.  
   
“Correct,” said Lestrade. “So we need…something else. Anything that can tell us whether this is the Intruder himself.”  
   
Sherlock’s nostrils flared. “What is that smell? That wet-leather smell. It didn’t originate from this room; the victim kept an immaculate house.” He continued, speaking now to everyone in the room and down the corridor. “Anyone notice a sort of wet-leathery smell in any room in any of the other houses?”  
   
Tyler sniffed, and spoke up. “Now that you mention it, I remember a smell like this, in the last house. Yeah, sort of like someone wasn’t a big fan of bathing.”  
   
Sherlock nodded curtly at Tyler. “Excellent, Detective Sergeant. Very impressive memory. What would impress me even more is if you would _stop touching everything that happens to be in front of your face like you were a bloody toddler_.”  
   
“I’m looking for the shoe print,” Tyler snapped. “He may have climbed over one of these upturned drawers on his way out, or stepped in some laundry.”  
   
“Tyler, keep your hands to yourself for now,” Lestrade said. “The problem with the odor is, it won’t exactly stand up in court. We need something a bit more tangible.”  
   
John slowly approached the bed. “Has no one else noticed that the rest of the room is a shambles, but the duvet is flat on the bed? Even after the victim was probably dragged out of it?”  
   
Sherlock smiled approvingly as John lifted the duvet to look under the bed. “He’s begun learning how to apply my methods,” he said with pride.  
   
Tyler scowled at John. “Oi, where does he get off poking about?” He looked to Lestrade for agreement. “Just because that one’s shagging your Magic Eight Ball, he gets a free pass as well?”  
   
With a sigh and a low, calm tone, Sherlock said, “John and I are not _shagging_ , Detective Sergeant, thank you very much.”  
   
John got to his feet, allowing himself a frown whilst no one could see his face. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, that Sherlock said what he’d just said. It was no one’s business, after all; the two of them could keep it to themselves, if that’s what Sherlock--  
   
“We did shag a few times,” Sherlock continued offhandedly. “But ultimately it proved unsatisfying. Gave it up in the end. Now, if we can get back to the matter at hand? Or shall I say -- and I’m not normally one for these sorts of cheap plays on words -- afoot?” And he peeled back the duvet to reveal a bloody waffle-print stamped into the underside of the fabric, size eleven.  
   
“Well, that’s that. Now, if you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, it’s ten o’clock and it’s a long way to Blenheim Palace. Not that I give a toss about that missing statue of Queen Anne, but I’m delighted at the prospect of John Spencer-Churchill owing me a big, big favour.” Sherlock traipsed out of the bedroom and out of the house, with John following close behind. John only had a glance about the room before exiting, but he did not miss the amused smirks from the Yarders. Perhaps they were wondering whether everything about John was short, or if his PTSD had given him “performance anxiety.” Or perhaps they simply pitied him, for trying to have a go with someone as obviously impossible to please as Sherlock Holmes in the first place.  
   
John was silent in the cab. Sherlock sent a few texts and appeared generally oblivious. The silence continued on the train ride to Oxfordshire, and then back to London, after a brief investigation revealed the thief to be the disgruntled former lover of one of His Grace’s disgruntled former employees.  
   
On the rare occasions it was inflicted upon him, it was not Sherlock’s style to beg for an end to The Silent Treatment. He could wait out a silence like a champion, and busied himself with more texting and with his own thoughts all the way back to London and to Baker Street.  
   
At the end of the evening, John collapsed bitterly into bed beside Sherlock and made a big show of facing away from him and feigning sleep.  
   
“Oh John, come now,” Sherlock said, trying to have a feel under the blankets. “I pinned another murder on the Brixton Intruder and I found a missing statue. Doesn’t that make you just a _bit_ randy?”  
   
John rolled over and snapped at Sherlock, “How could you have told such a terrible lie? I would have been fine with a _simple_ lie, it would have been perfectly alright if you’d just plain denied we were together. I get that. But to tell them we _were_ shagging, and you gave it up because it was unsatisfying? That accomplished what, exactly?”  
   
The look of confusion on Sherlock’s face was startling. John expected “impassive,” perhaps “defensive.” He did not expect “hurt,” and that made him angrier, until Sherlock spoke.  
   
“But I was telling the truth! You remember the first few times we were…together. It was after a case, and we were both overcome, and we couldn’t even wait to get to the bedroom. We gave each other a wank halfway up the stairs, for God’s sake.”  
   
“Yes, I remember,” John said, in a tone that screamed _Get to the point_.  
   
“Well, so, hurried incidents that were over in minutes began to wear a bit thin for me. You called it ‘shagging’ over breakfast one morning. You said--”  
   
John finished. “…‘What you need is another case to solve, and what I need is another good shag afterward.’”  
   
“Those were precisely the words. And I thought, _Can’t say I’m much for this shagging business_. And that’s when I decided that from then on, we would make love instead.”  
   
John’s stomach dropped. Sherlock had never used that phrase before. “So…how do you define that? Making love.”  
   
“Well, you do it properly in the bed, for one. And you put a towel down, because there’s some thoughtfulness about it. And you have kissing.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed through this hurried explanation, as though it were silly and tedious. But John knew what was really going on: Sherlock was embarrassed. He merrily pointed out others’ sexual foibles in public, but in private, he wasn’t much of a communicator, aside from some enthusiastic verbal encouragement during the act.  
   
Regardless, it was brilliant. Sherlock’s sweetly naïve explanation made John forget the day’s painful awkwardness immediately.  
   
“Hm,” John said, “alright, let me see if I have this straight. First, we must be in a bed.” He tapped the mattress. “Got that sorted. Then, there has to be a towel.” He reached over the side of the bed and came up with a neatly folded towel from beneath the bedside table. He spread it between them, then pulled Sherlock towards him, so he was sat on the towel. “Then, there has to be kissing.”  
   
Sherlock nodded cordially, though his lips were tightly shut. Sherlock’s mouth never really seemed made for kissing. It was an instrument for asserting his superiority, for spitting insults and smirking. Whenever John kissed Sherlock, he felt he must first subdue that mouth, force it to accept his passionate, unironic kisses. And after a few minutes, Sherlock would groan and open up so that John could put his tongue inside. This initial struggle, the process of conquering that mouth, never failed to make John’s prick hard, and when Sherlock uttered his little groan of surrender, and John’s tongue pushed its way in, he felt an additional single, hard, triumphant throb.  
   
While Sherlock was thus disarmed, John put one arm round him and guided him down to a supine position. It was slow and involved some murmuring and, John felt, adhered perfectly to Sherlock’s standards for love-making. As he rolled Sherlock onto his stomach, the deep, wet kisses on the mouth migrated and became moist pecks along Sherlock’s cheek, then his shoulders. And finally, a kiss to Sherlock’s tricep, the only part of him John could still put his mouth on while reaching for the lube.  
   
It wasn’t strictly necessary to use lubrication for this. They had done it once or twice without, when they’d been away from home. But the lube made it so much better, ridiculously slippery.  
   
They began with Sherlock’s legs spread and John kneeling in between. John squirted the lube between the cheeks of Sherlock’s arse, then, budging up and gripping his own cock with one hand and bracing himself with the other, he used the head to spread it down to Sherlock’s balls and back up to his arsehole, then across to paint the crooks of his thighs. He lifted each knee out in turn, so he could straddle Sherlock’s hips. By this time, Sherlock could do little more than quiver, until John slipped the length into that hot, slickened crevice and commanded, “Squeeze.”  
   
Sherlock obediently clamped his thighs shut, giving John a gorgeously tight passage to slide through. As John began to thrust in earnest, Sherlock pushed one hand under himself. He didn’t touch his own cock; rather, he wanted to feel John’s poke through from beneath his balls, so he could cup it with his fingers, feel the slick, blunt heat of it, tease the fraenulum, drag one fingertip along the wet slit as it retreated.  
   
John slid his hand underneath Sherlock as well, taking on the duty of giving Sherlock’s neglected prick its own slippery ring of flesh to push into. His hand being trapped where it was did not interfere with his ability to slide smoothly between Sherlock’s thighs. Every long, hard thrust had Sherlock’s playful fingers on one end, and on the other, the satisfying slam of his pelvic bone into the soft cushion of Sherlock’s arse.  
   
John didn’t want to get too close too soon, so he tried to distract himself with chatter. “Tell me,” he said, “since you have now established yourself as the font of all sexual knowledge…what things are suitable to say when one is making love…as opposed to shagging?”  
   
“When you’re…shagging…you give orders, like…‘faster’ or ‘harder.’” Despite the interruptions caused by the impact of John’s thrusts, Sherlock seemed to be taking very seriously his role as the font of all sexual knowledge. “But when you’re making…love…you say nice things about…the other person.”  
   
“Ah. So, for example…if I were to tell you how good your body feels to me right now, and how I love the nasty wet noises we’re making together…that would be entirely appropriate.”  
   
“…Entirely,” Sherlock grunted.  
   
It was too good now, the noises Sherlock made were too sweet, for John to last much longer. He felt it coming; didn’t chase it but didn’t fight it. And he didn’t bother to warn Sherlock, just surrendered to the surges of pleasure and the hammering pulse of his ejaculation. Most of it shot into Sherlock’s palm, but John pulled back once to watch the last spurt land on Sherlock’s arsehole, then so that he could push it with his cock deep into the crease beneath.  
   
Sherlock parted his thighs to release John’s sated cock, but would not let the hand go. “ _Unh_ , John, I’m not finished,” he moaned.  
   
Still hovering over him, John dipped his free hand between Sherlock’s buttocks, adding his fingers to the messy mixture of fluids and rubbing Sherlock’s perineum firmly. It was slightly awkward, trying to move both hands in concert, but Sherlock did not want to interrupt the rhythm by changing position. He tilted his pelvis to get more of John’s fingers, unashamedly displaying the sticky mess they’d created. He was so close, teetering on the edge in blissful agony. John knew what he needed, and pressed the pad of one finger against Sherlock’s arsehole, threatening to push in. Sherlock cried out and erupted thick and hot over the fingers of John’s other hand.  
   
Both men sighed with contentment, while things that had been hot and hard and slippery became soft and warm and sticky. They parted from each other, reluctantly. John took up the towel and gently cleaned between Sherlock’s thighs, then wiped his hands for him, rubbing the towel between Sherlock’s fingers before seeing to himself.  
   
Having discarded the towel, John flopped back on the bed next to Sherlock. Taking one look at each other, they began to laugh, and sigh, by turns, the only reasonable reaction, it seemed, to such an enormous mutual release of tension.  
   
“Oh. This is the fourth thing,” Sherlock said, resuming his typical, serious tone.  
   
“The what?”  
   
“After a shag, you look at each other as if to say, ‘What in God’s name did we just do?’ But after you make love, you giggle.”  
   
“I see.”  
   
“Because it’s silly but you don’t care.”  
   
“True and true,” John said, and giggled some more.  
   
“You’re not still angry about what I said this morning, are you?”  
   
John contemplated this for a moment, then said, “Eh, sod it. I don’t care what those idiots at the Yard think, anyway.”  
   
Sherlock smiled. “I’m so pleased to see you coming round to my way of thinking.”


End file.
